Hour of the wolf
by Little-Corners
Summary: AU. Sansa has grown up as a prisoner of the Lannisters, and knows how to play her part, but she'll always have wolf in her blood. Fair warning, this is an attempt at smut.


**Warning: Sexual content.**

Sansa was running. The forest reached out for her with long, black fingers, scratching at her bare legs and whipping at her face. The uneven ground tripped her every foot fall and as the darkness swallowed her up, the cold moment of clarity she had seized back at the keep was in danger of giving way to fevered, chocking panic.

Exhausted and bleeding, she collapsed in to the sodden forest floor and tried to steady her ragged breathing. Pulling her knees to her chest, she let the tree support her and closed her eyes against the fear and tried to immerse herself in the overwhelming black stillness of the woods. As her mind began to calm, she began to reclaim her body; the ache in her legs and the sing of the welts on her feet were welcome distractions from the racing of her heart. She concentrated on the sound of the wind moving the dried leaves, and the smell of earth and rain and rotting bark. It was no use in giving over to panic now. She had made her choice, but never had she expected to get so far. She smiled then, the panic melting in to thrill, before she became aware of another sensation. A sound beyond her. Hooves.

She pulled herself tighter against the tree and dug her fingers deep in to the soft, wet earth, willing herself still. The hooves moved closer, and now she could hear another's breathing over her own. The sound was heavy and steady, in stark contrast to hers, and it brought with it the smell of old leather and stale alcohol. She closed her eyes. She knew that scent.

'There you are little bird. Flown far from your cage, haven't you?'

Sansa opened her eyes with a start. She had not thought him so close. Half in shadow, half in moonlight, he looked down at her from that terrible black horse. His expression was indistinguishable, and she could read nothing from his tone. Her first instinct was to bolt, to run again, but the cold had bit deep in to her tired muscles and they would not move for her command. Besides, he would easily outpace her on a horse. She was caught, struck as if stone. She realised she was holding her breath.

Wordlessly, he lent down and she found that he was offering his hand. She took it without thinking. He had not grabbed her. Instead, he pulled her up with his thick arm like she was nothing, hauling her tired body on to his mount and placing her in front of him. His other arm came around from the side and took the reins, encircling her. Panic left her, suddenly, like all the water rushing out from a cold bath, and in its place, she just felt weary. Unable to hold herself up, she slumped backwards, her head resting in the crook of his shoulder were the arm met his broad chest. There was nothing more to be done now but let him carry her back.

Back to her cage. Back to the fear and the tension and the eyes that were ever constant. The girl she had been would have cried to feel so powerless. The woman would waste no more tears on that. She had made her choice. She would face their questions if she had to. She would run again.

'Are you going to tell the king?' she said blankly. He took a moment or two before he responded.

'No little bird. No need for anyone to know. As always.'

'How did you find me?' she asked. Leaning against him, she realised he was not wearing armour. She could hear his heartbeat, faintly, near her ear. She could feel the warmth of him though his clothes. The fabric was rough against the side of her face.

'By accident.'

He never gave any more of an explanation than that, and by now she knew it was nearly always a lie. Still, she always asked the question. To not would involve facing the reality of their arrangement, and she was not quite prepared to take that from him just yet. He always seemed more comfortable in the falsehood, just as she would always lie when he asked if she would run again.

_No, of course not._

_Good, little bird. They will kill you if they knew._

_Why would you care?_

_I don't._

The world was held together with lies, as she had learned to her cost. Theirs was no different.

There was a jolt as the horse moved unexpectedly, and Sansa was knocked to the side, slipping from her resting place. At once, his large hand was under her, pulling her back to him. She righted herself, but The Hound did not move his hand. It lingered, fingers spread, across her rib cage. Sansa did not protest. His touch was becoming natural to her now, she realised with the half-dark consciousness of being tired. The weight of it against her was neither a discomfort nor an intrusion. She allowed it to remain.

She had not realised just how far she had managed to run. The castle loomed up from the thicket in darkness, illuminated only by the fires lit deep within. She had not paid much attention to the route she had torn through earlier, but she knew they were not travelling back that way. A path was becoming clear amongst the leaves, leading them down towards the river bank. She leant back and looked up at the man above her but could only see the underside of his chin and his thick, unshaven neck.

'This isn't the way' she protested. She worried he had lied to her, and that somewhere in the woods, _they _were waiting. He shook his head.

'Can't ride back through the Kings Gate with you can I?'

She had escaped under darkness and a cloak, past the lacklustre eyes of the guards there. One young woman was not hard to miss, especially one as dirty and ragged as she had made herself. He, on the other hand, would be noticed. Still, she looked back ahead, eyes probing the half-light, trying to see the trap she was being led to.

'But this is the river. There's no way back through the wall this way.'

He laughed then, and his chest shook behind her. She glowered up at him but he did not look back to her.

'So eager to get back little bird? You are a strange creature. You run, and then complain that I am taking too long in returning you.'

He continued to chuckle to himself.

'Where are you taking me?' he demanded, unwilling to let the point drop. She could not believe he would deceive her. This was not the way this game was played.

He stopped his laughter.

'The Mud Gate' he said simply, and she felt foolish then to have doubted him.

As they rode, the swaying motion of the horse was causing his hand to slip across the thin fabric of her dress, back and forth, as the material moved. With every slip, it moved closer to her chest. She was too angry to notice at first, feeling embarrassed to have mistrusted him. When his thumb brushed across the tender skin of her nipple, already hard in the cold air, she gasped in surprise. He withdrew as soon as the sound escaped her, and his hand dropped like a stone back to the reigns. She looked down at the offending hand blankly, a moment of confusion striking her dumb. But that was the girl of her past and she had put her away along with all other childish things. Instead, she smiled and let her head relax against him once more, and felt that familiar little thrill take hold of her. She could feel his tension, and the steady, measured way in which he breathed and she laughed quietly.

But time was passing, and the slow, rocking movement of the horse was carrying her further and further towards reality once again. Back to Lady Sansa Stark; daughter of traitors and dead things. Lady Sansa owned nothing, not even her face. Even that was borrowed from a girl she had once known - a girl who loved knights and flowers.

But here, in the cold darkness of the forest, she was simply Sansa once again and every time she ran, she reclaimed what was hers. With every welt and cut, she marked her territory. Every glorious ache and smear of mud. Every beautiful bruise. _This is mine _they said. _And I am alive still, no matter what they think._ The wolf in her stirred.

Her hand moved from her lap before it fell, as if by accident, to the hand that held the reigns. He was cold to the touch – he always had such cold hands – and she let her fingers become familiar again with the particular coarseness of his skin, the dips and creases that made up his fingers. Slowly, she felt him begin to relax and open for her, and so she became more forceful, slipping her hand in to his. Against her back, the slow rhythm of his breathing continued, although she could sense the slight shake in it now – a fault he would never admit to, and one she had overlooked so many times before. His breath was warm though, and touched the bare skin on the back of her neck lightly. The wood enclosed them.

In silence, she lifted his hand upwards, and laid it in the position it had occupied a few moments before. Gently, she pressed it down and he replied by spreading his fingers outward again, across her side and up, so that his thumb just touched the curve of her breast. She kept her hand on top of his, lightly, although with a very definite insistence. She shifted backwards, closer in to him, and sensed immediately that something had changed; he was not playing the game as they usually did. He seemed to be doing little to hide the shiver this time, so much so that she could already feel it in his hand. She was glad of it; the world was threatening to intrude at any moment and they had no time for the usual pleasantries. In encouragement, she leant and arched her back slightly, so that his hand was forced to move with the pull of the fabric, up and higher. His fingers skimmed across the swell of her breast, barely touching her at all, until he covered her entirely. She moaned softly, and closed her eyes. Above her, the low growl signalled that he had at last given up on pretence and she opened her mouth wordlessly as his fingers dug in to her. His other hand let the reigns fall away and rose to cup her other breast. He touched her roughly, slowly, insistently. She arched back in to him, looking up to try and find his eyes but of course he avoided her.

Instead, he put his head down next to hers, cheek against rough cheek. She was immediately, painfully aware of the threat of his mouth against her shoulder and that thought caused a fresh wave of heat to bloom across her, catching between her legs and spreading. His fingers found her nipples and pinched, causing her to moan again, louder and more fervently. Still his mouth hung away from her, enticingly out of reach. Her hands reached up and tangled her fingers in his hair.

She pulled away from him, but only for a minute. With a deft, elegant movement, she swung her leg across and turned so that she was facing him. With a final tug, she pulled herself up so that she was sitting right in his lap, wrapping her limbs around him. Without his usual armour, the only thing separating their bodies was the inconsequential fabric of their clothes. The ridges of his body were at once familiar and strange to her – how many times had she ridden pressed against his back or encircled by his arm? And later, when the rules of their game were still new to her, and she had looked up to him in the half-dark and explored the rough map of his body with her finger tips, he was still never truly exposed to her. Even after all this time.

He would not look at her still, and buried his face in to the hollow of her throat, so she covered the bare skin of his neck with kisses, nipping and nuzzling at the flesh. As she moved her hips against him, the moan that tore from his throat made her smile and she bit him again, harder. In reply, his teeth grazed along her skin with a softness that was painful and she dug her fingers in to his hair again, begging for more. His hands were back at her breasts, her belly, her thighs. He moved quickly now, with the same hungry needing as before. Everywhere he touched, he set her aflame. She could feel him hard against her, pressing in to the place she needed him most, and with every rock of the horse, she rolled against him. His shiver had become hers, and her hands began to tremble as she felt his hand finally slip down between her legs. He pulled at her small clothes, opening her up for him, and the rush of the cold air against her wetness made her gasp.

There was no pause, no time for her to adjust. In a second, he had lifted her up and was pushing her down again on to him, hard. As he entered her, slick and wet, she felt her world suddenly shrink. All that existed were his hands and mouth touched her and the hot, sweet place where their bodies joined.

Still with eyes closed, she began to rock again, and let instinct take over. He began to lift her with every thrust, pulling her down harder and deeper. Gasping, she opened her eyes and found him looking at her at last. She kissed him, hard enough to feel the bruise already form on her lips. It was raw and violent; so far removed from anything she could have ever thought she would enjoy, would seek out, would need. But there could be no other way for her now. The hour of the wolf was come. Lady Sansa Stark could wait.


End file.
